sunrise, of ocean waves or autumn woods, of kingly pageant or of
martial pomp.

It was very hard. Poor Lampblack felt as if his very heart would
break, above all when he thought of pretty little Rose Madder,
whom he loved dearly, and who never would even look at him,
because she was so very proud, being herself always placed in
nothing less than rosy clouds, or the hearts of roses, or
something as fair and spiritual.

"I am only a wretched deposit!" sighed Lampblack, and the rusty
palette knife grumbled back, "My own life has been ruined in
cleaning dirty brushes, and see what the gratitude of men and
brushes is!"

"But at least you have been of use once; but I never am--never!"
said Lampblack, wearily; and indeed he had been there so long that
the spiders had spun their silver fleeces all about him, and he
was growing as gray as an old bottle does in a dark cellar.

At that moment the door of the studio opened, and there came a
flood of light, and the step of a man was heard: the hearts of all
the colors jumped for joy, because the step was that of their
magician, who out of mere common clays and ground ores could raise
them at a touch into splendors of the gods and divinities
immortal.

Only the heart of poor dusty Lampblack could not beat a throb the
more, because he was always left alone and never was thought
worthy even of a glance. He could not believe his senses when this